


For I Have Sinned

by Petalene



Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Priest Kink, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petalene/pseuds/Petalene
Summary: For I Have SinnedOr The Five Times Crowley Went to ConfessionIt’s 1529 and Crowley’s latest assignment involves confessing lust and desire to a priest in order to tempt him. He may not have much in the way of interesting experience to draw inspiration from, but he certainly has imagined what could have been with Aziraphale over the years. So spinning the tales into dirty fantasies is surprisingly easy. And besides, it’s kind of nice to talk to someone about his feelings for the angel, even if Brother Francis keeps trying to save his soul.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1482767
Comments: 28
Kudos: 234





	For I Have Sinned

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for explicit. Fill for kink meme prompt:
> 
> https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1866585#cmt1866585 
> 
> and fill for GO Bingo square forbidden love. 
> 
> I did some research on confession, church practices and so on. But I am not and never have been a Catholic. So my assumption is that I am playing somewhat fast and loose with the setting. But so does Good Omens, so *shrugs.* Warnings for historically accurate, but unhealthy, discussion of homosexuality.

\- ONE -

England 1529

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been....” Crowley pauses. What sounds reasonable? “...at least two years since my last confession.” 

The confessional is cramped. Despite the ease with which the door can be opened, mild claustrophobia settles in. The size and shape is reminiscent of a coffin, and the strong smell of incense coupled with whatever they use the clean the church is a bit much. 

To be fair, the space is bigger than a coffin, but his palms touch the walls well before he can extend his arms all the way out. While several coincidences and a few demonic interventions have prevented the church from technically being on consecrated ground, the bench in the confessional is uncomfortably hard and a little too warm. Not burning, but not what room temperature wood should feel like. At least the opening leading to the priest’s side of the box is far enough away that Crowley can take off his sunglasses. It’s impossible to see in here, despite the futile efforts of the one guttering candle to push back the darkness. 

“Be not afraid, I have heard it all,” the priest says. “What sins have you committed since you last came to confession?”

Lying, for starters. It’s been at least eighty years since he’s been in a confessional, although, at that time, he was on the priest’s side of the booth. Crowley is usually guilty of indulging in all seven of the deadly sins on any day he’s awake for more than a few hours. He enticed a woman to steal, lead a politician to the arms of corruption, and encouraged lust simply by walking down the street. And that’s just this morning on his way to the church. But since Crowley is here to tempt the priest to give in to his homosexual preferences, that’s what he should focus on. 

“I do not desire to take a wife.”

“I have no desire to take a wife either, my son. That is not a sin in and of itself. Is someone pressuring you to marry?”

“No. You misunderstand. I desire to lie with men.” An image of Aziraphale smiling cheerfully while savoring his meal the last time they met appears in Crowley’s mind. “Especially one particular man.”

Crowley may not be human, but he’s been residing in a human corporation for millennia. And his human corporation desperately desires to know his angel’s corporation in the biblical sense. 

“God desires that we be fruitful and multiply,” the priest says. 

Hypocrite. The priest isn’t having kids. Crowley doesn’t put much stock in Her opinion. Not since he fell, anyway. “I don’t believe God wants me to spread my seed.” She doesn’t want half-demon children running around and making trouble. Crowley shudders at the thought.

“God loves all his children.”

God gets smitey when her children ask too many questions. “Not me.”

“You must have some hope or you wouldn’t be seeking forgiveness. What is causing this crisis of faith?”

And here is the perfect opening. “The man I mentioned, the one I have...feelings for. I believe he desires me as well.” Crowley thinks no such thing. Surely his angel would have said something by now if he returned Crowley’s feelings. 

“Have you spoken with him about this?” the priest asks. 

“No. I fear I’ll tempt him into losing God’s favor.” That much, at least, is true. Crowley likes Aziraphale the way he is and wouldn’t want to corrupt him and cause him to fall. Besides, Aziraphale would make a terrible demon, tripping over himself and apologizing while trying to tempt humans into wrongdoing. Out of curiosity, Crowley has spied on Aziraphale while he was alternating blessings with temptations as per the arrangement, and that’s exactly how things went down. 

“Do you believe that angels walk among us?” Crowley asks. 

“I have absolute conviction that they do.”

“This man is an angel and deserves better than an existence hiding in shadows with me so we can be together.” When did Crowley decide to be so honest?

“If you haven’t confirmed that this man returns your affections, then you may not have the option to sin.”

Right. Like Crowley has never been to a Roman orgy where the “manliest” of men declare their devotion to the opposite sex while getting their dick massaged by a male slave’s mouth. So often what humans say and what they do have little or no correlation. A priest who hears confessions should know this better than most humans, even if he hasn’t been to a Roman orgy.

“We had occasion to get caught in a summer downpour,” Crowley says. “The day had been bright and sunny until storm clouds rolled in. We were not dressed for the weather and his white shirt became transparent, displaying his chest. The image is burned in my mind. I can see it even now when I close my eyes, the expanse of his chest covered in fine hairs, every muscle outlined by the wet fabric.”

The closest Crowley has come to seeing Aziraphale naked was when the first rains came to the garden. Aziraphale sheltered Crowley under his wing and Crowley had watched in fascination as Aziraphale’s tunic became increasingly see through the wetter it got, making it cling to the angel’s body. 

“I wanted to peel the shirt off and catch the rain dripping down his body on my tongue. And I imagined him moaning as I did. Nothing in Heaven or on Earth will ever compare to his beauty.”

“And this man said nothing?” the priest asks.

“Neither did I, but I enjoyed looking and I think he did too.” Crowley certainly enjoyed looking and he would let Aziraphale look. And touch. And anything else he wanted. 

“Are you sure it is truly a man that you desire?”

Could there be a more idiotic question? Crowley knows that he wouldn’t want somebody to stab him in the thigh with the dagger without actually having been stabbed in the thigh with a dagger. People know what they want and what they don’t want, even when they won’t admit it to anyone or themselves. 

“When I touch myself to release, I’ve tried imagining a pretty girl with rosy lips and a plump bosom. But the longer I stroke myself, the harder it is to hold that image in my mind. It always changes to a man with broad shoulders, a hairy chest, and an erect member.” Unless he imagines Aziraphale presenting as female with rosy lips and a plump bosom. Then it works just fine. 

There is a little gasp from the other side of the confessional. Crowley steeples his fingers together and smiles. He is succeeding, the idea firmly planted in the priest’s mind. Priests are probably not allowed to masturbate, but Crowley is fairly confident that they do it, anyway. The next time the priest brings himself off, it will likely be by remembering this conversation. 

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to touch myself, but no matter how firm my resolve, it’s easier to do that than deal with the constant ache. And it feels so good. Have you ever…?”

“My child, we are not here to discuss me. Did you pray?” the priest asks, his voice sounding a little gravelly. 

“I haven’t in a long time,” Crowley says. The last time he remembers praying was shortly after he fell. He gave up on attempting to speak with God well before he went to Eden to make some trouble. 

“For your penitence, say the rosary. Pray for strength from God and it will be granted. And I counsel you to stay away from the man you lust after. Do not abandon him in his hour of need, but no good can come of continued contact. It is time for your act of contrition.”

“I do not remember the words.”

The priest says the first sentence and pauses, allowing Crowley to repeat it after. They go through it, line by line until they reach the end. 

“What is your name father?” Crowley asks. “I may require your wise counsel in the future and wish to seek your guidance again.”

“Confession should remain anonymous.”

“My name is-” oops, he didn’t think this through “-Anthony.” A smirk spreads across the demon’s face. It’s the first step, getting the priest to break a small rule and then working up to the bigger ones. “Please. It will be a comfort to me to have a name. I feel love and compassion speaking with you and I fear I won’t get the same understanding from another priest.”

With a sigh, the priest says, “I receive confession every Monday and Tuesday from eight until noon. And I am also a Frier in addition to being ordained as a priest. You may call me Brother Francis.”

\- TWO - 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Brother Francis again?”

“You do. And back so soon, Anthony? I did not expect to have you in my confessional for at least two years,” he says with what sounds like the hint of a smile.

The organist plays an almost cheerful tune, the music drifting in the air. Crowley doesn’t know the name of the song, most church music is too repetitive and boring for him to bother with, but this piece is almost catchy. Either that or they have purposefully perked up the music to encourage people to actually enjoy it. Or more like, it’s an aberration and the rest of the music is still terrible. 

Brother Francis asks, “What sins have you committed since your last confession?”

Crowley frowns. It’s been a bit of a slow week for temptations. What has he done? He almost forgot convincing several men to steal. Sure, it’s to feed their nearly starving families, but it still counts. Then there was the conversation with the bastard son of a nobleman. He’ll be seeking revenge shortly on the man who impregnated his mother. 

“It is getting worse, my desire for this man. I dream about him every night.” Crowley is thankful that he doesn’t dream of Aziraphale. Then he would never get any rest. But it makes for a good story. 

“What do you dream?”

“Silly, impossible things. Us living in the same residence, the staff uncaring about our sleeping arrangements. In my dreams, I wake to his smile every morning and it’s intoxicating. When I truly wake and he isn’t there, I almost want to cry.”

Is that too much? Crowley may be laying it on a little thick. It’s a delicate balance between creating intrigue and overdoing it. 

“Oh, Anthony. I am so sorry.” The voice is kind and gentle, but full of regret. 

Maybe not too thick, then. “And then there are the other dreams. Those are the more difficult to deal with. In the last one, he was a knight in shining armor, tasked with saving the land from a great evil.” No need to mention that Crowley was the great evil Aziraphale was quested to defeat. 

“He rode up to the castle, resplendent in his victory. At the feast in his honor, he danced with me, the two of us facing each other, and the entire court cheered us on. Not a single person questioned our desire to be romantically involved together.” 

It would be so wonderful if that had happened like that, and there was almost a moment when it could have. Aziraphale had been presenting as female following his brief stint as a Knight of the Round Table. After performing a miracle which aroused Merlin’s suspicions and likely resulted in him feeling threatened, Aziraphale left, returning a few months later as a widow of some standing. Merlin never looked at Lady Elizabeth Fell twice. 

When Crowley had realized that Aziraphale was still nearby. A snap of his fingers and a change of clothes later, and permission was granted for him to enjoy the hospitality of the castle for a time. Crowley had almost resorted to publicly declaring his intention to court the angel so he could keep his adversary close. Not because that wanker Sir Lancelot wasn’t satisfied being Queen Guinevere’s piece on the side and had thus set his sights on Lady Fell. 

“We danced and danced. It would be scandalous how close we stood together, face to face and in each other’s arms. It was almost like I imagine making love. I could feel the heat of his body through our clothes and I wanted nothing more than to take him to bed.” 

They’d danced, but they had held hands with two dozen or so people in a large circle, as was the custom at the time. But that gives Crowley an idea. How difficult would it be to introduce face to face dancing? Everyone knows demons can’t dance well, but that might not matter if he can convince gentlemen that they can hold their partner in their arms instead of occasional touches like the currently acceptable dances. 

“In the dream, we retired to the same room after the celebration, happily drunk and content. I told him he deserved a proper welcome home from his quest. We were in our nightshirts, and slowly pulling the garment off revealed his magnificent body. I was allowed to touch and I touched him everywhere. And I do mean everywhere.”

The bed Crowley had at King Author’s castle was one of the largest and most comfortable he’s ever slept in. Not that he got much sleep. Lancelot kept attempting to sneak into Lady Fell’s room. Crowley knew the angel was capable of sending a well-aimed miracle at the man’s groin which would have sent him stumbling backward in pain. But the scandal would have been inconvenient for Aziraphale. It had nothing to do with Crowley not wanting anyone to touch his angel. Nothing at all. 

“I dreamed I pushed him face-first onto the bed, grabbed his bottom, and used my thumbs to hold him open. His hole twitched and I couldn’t resist sticking my mouth on him. I don’t know if that’s really a thing, it seemed so dirty, but I would with him. I’d do anything he wanted. Absolutely anything.”

Brother Frances doesn’t comment on this last admission. Either he’s too shocked to respond, or he’s too turned on to feel comfortable speaking. His breathing sounds a little labored. It matters not. Crowley is getting into this and kind of doesn’t care if he’s lost his audience. He can practically feel Aziraphale’s lush ass under his fingertips and puckered muscle with his lips. His angel would taste so good. 

“He was moaning, wiggling around and fisting the sheets. There are no words for how it felt. I was with my angel and he wanted me, wanted me to suck and lick. He kept moaning for more. I breached him with my tongue, unconcerned with my own needs. All I cared about was pleasing him and making him whimper.”

That would have been perfect. As they were presenting in a manner which society finds acceptable, it would have been a reasonable time to experiment.

“The night after I had that dream, I encountered him at a party and I forced myself to keep my hands in my pockets to lessen my temptation to push him against a wall and kiss him, to discover if his ass felt as good as it looked. I know you have taken vows of chastity before God, but surely your gaze wanders from time to time. Have you ever noticed how grabbable a bottom can be?”

“I have noticed the beauty of others. But we are not here to discuss me, my son.”

Yes, we are. You just don’t realize it. And thanks for letting me know that male beauty is one place in which to drive the wedge and get you to crack. 

“I once overheard two gentlemen discussing a magic spot inside that can make you see sparks if it’s stroked.” They were fucking at a Roman orgy and the bottom kept begging the man fucking him to go harder and shift positions so he could spill. “Curiosity has gotten the best of me on occasion, and I have attempted to find it with my fingers. I believe I have, but it’s like trying to tickle yourself. You get the ghost of a sensation, but it isn’t nearly as intense as someone else touching you. If I let my angel touch me like that, I may dis-die.” That would have been a bad slip. 

Let Brother Francis think about that for a moment. Is he imagining the man he loves sliding a finger inside him until he explodes with pleasure? Or does he see himself penetrating his love? 

“The night of the party, I had the same dream again. It was so good and I woke hard and aching. Control failed me and I stroked myself to completion. What am I to do? I can’t force the direction of my dreams. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, my desperation to find him and discover if he can return my affections.”

“You need to pray!” Brother Francis says, his voice too loud.

The organ music falters for several moments before continuing.

This is working. “I have, Father. I’ve prayed long and hard. I get down on my knees every night and pray. I have had to stop kneeling by my bedside to do so. Even as I ask God for strength, I imagine my angel and me in the bed together and all the ways we can discover to please each other. 

“Pray the rosary.”

“I have. But when I close my eyes and fall asleep, my mind always goes to him. During the day, I at least have the opportunity to steer the course of my thoughts. But at night, I am a slave to Morpheus and must follow where he leads. I don’t know if what I dreamed is an enjoyable act. I imagine someone somewhere has tried it.” Crowley has seen just about everything two or more people can do at Roman orgies. “I cannot be the only one to conceive of such things.” Thus the Roman orgies. “Attempting to prevent people from giving and taking pleasure leads to debauchery.” And Roman orgies. 

It’s a disturbing realization that most of Crowley’s knowledge about sex comes from attending Roman orgies. In all fairness, most of the goings-on had never occurred to him and the humans were so creative when there were no restrictions on what you could do and with whom. All Crowley had to do was sit back with a cup of wine and watch the sinning. 

The one time he ran into Aziraphale at one of those shindigs was when Crowley discovered his almost pornographic interest in watching the angel eat. The party hadn’t gotten properly started yet and everyone indulged in feasting and drinking. The angel reclined fully dressed on a sofa, allowing a slave to slip morsels of food between his lips. The decadent moans and the way the angel’s eyes would roll back in his head when he tasted something scrumptious was more erotic than anything Crowley had ever seen. Even at Roman orgies. 

Brother Francis coughs. “Pray the rosary as many times as necessary to give you peace of mind. I believe God’s love will protect you.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Like that’s going to work. Praying may convince some not to indulge in their lust, but it won’t make the feelings go away. “Thank you for your guidance.”

It takes a few moments for Crowley to compose his expression. Leaving the confessional with a smirk won’t do, especially after Brother Frances yelled at him to pray so loudly that the organist could hear it over the music he was playing.

\- THREE - 

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

“Good morning, Anthony.”

“Good morning, Brother Francis.”

“What sins have you come to confess?”

The confessional seems even smaller and darker than last time. Who designed this silly thing? Crowley slides his glasses up on his head. That’s a little better. In the last week, he’s convinced an official to look the other way in regards to a house of ill repute, gotten a large quantity of psilocybin mushrooms mixed up with regular ones at the market, and prevented the persecution of two women accused of witchcraft. If anyone asks, it’s because it benefits Hell to have practitioners around. It has nothing to do with the way they healed his hand for a reasonable compensation after he accidentally touched a holy object. And besides, they are clearly more interested in each other than in leading men towards sin, which will likely lead more men to lust. There’s other sins, of course, but those are his favorites. 

“We attended a wedding,” Crowley says. “The wine flowed freely and everyone got drunk, including the bride and groom. Not the best way to start off married life.” 

He and Aziraphale have attended several weddings together, the most memorable being the one in Cana where it was rumored that Jesus turned water into wine. Crowley isn’t certain if Jesus is God’s son, but there was something divine about him that defied understanding. 

Everyone was drunk before the supposedly transformed alcohol, and it got a million times worse after. Wether or not it was divinely created, it was the best wine Crowley has ever drunk and he’s glad he got to enjoy it with his angel.

“What happened?” Brother Francis asks. 

“People were dancing and celebrating and having a good time. And drunk. Everyone was very, very drunk. When night fell, I escorted him to his room. He could barely stand up. I didn’t want him to get hurt or for someone to take advantage of him. My poor Angel.” 

That much had happened. Aziraphale was adorably drunk, demanding Crowley help him hide because he couldn’t be introduced to Jesus for the first time while “Piss ass drunk.” He’d actually used those words and unwittingly coined a phrase which Crowley later took credit for. Crowley escorted his Angel to his room, helped him get his sandals off while not permitting his hands to slide up those perfect legs until he discovered what sort of effort the angel currently wore, and he left Aziraphale to sleep it off with a cup of water by the bedside. But not before using demonic intervention which would prevent anyone besides Crowley or Aziraphale from opening the door. Crowley will never be drunk enough to willingly risk the angel’s safety, especially not while Aziraphale is incapacitated.

“I took him to his room. Should have left him as soon as we entered, but he looked so uncomfortable in his clothes and he seemed too far gone to take care of himself. So I took off his boots. Then helped him out of his trousers. Never have I seen such perfection, even better than I imagined. Strong, muscular legs and a half erect member.” 

Crowley sighs, picturing it - the soft white blond hairs on Aziraphale’s legs and groin, downy hairs across the chest and pink, pebbled nipples begging to be sucked on. Either a hard, leaking dick or a tight, wet cunt. Crowley would be completely content with whatever effort Aziraphale prefers.

“Without allowing myself to think about it, I undressed and crawled in bed beside him. He was warm, like a furnace and his body felt so right pressed up against mine. Have you ever touched someone the way a man should touch his wife? I had no idea that a person’s skin could feel so soft. The way he sighed as I ran my fingertips up his thigh made me melt. I damn near spilled before he could touch my manhood.”

“That’s a lot of detail!”

Crowley bites back a laugh. “It’s helping me process what happened. My heart is so burdened that I know not how much to share. I fear holding back important details and denying myself the opportunity for forgiveness.”

In a small voice, Brother Francis says, “Carry on, then.”

Drunk sex with Aziraphale would be amazing. The angel would taste like divine light and they both could relax enough to let go of the worries of their respective bosses finding out and be able to properly indulge. They’ve shared enough meals that Crowley can easily imagine the moans Aziraphale would make when he gets spread out like a buffet and devoured. 

“He woke up enough to kiss me and I am ashamed to admit, I kissed him back. He tasted like wine and summer. I had no idea that sins of the flesh could be so decadent. His hands were everywhere, and I enjoyed touching him just as much. The way he whimpered was almost obscene and it only served to encourage me.”

Is this having any effect? Crowley almost wishes he could see the expression on Brother Francis’s face to determine if this is working, but he knows that it would be a terrible idea to lean forward and attempt to peek through the screen. A little, “Eep!” convinces Crowley that he’s on the right track and to continue confessing. This is surprisingly fun. 

“I rubbed against him until we both achieved release. I have touched myself before, I admitted to that much previously. But I had no idea how much more intense it could be when someone else touches me. And the kissing. I have kissed a few women.” Human women and it did not stir any passion in Crowley. In all fairness, neither has kissing human men. “But this was important. It was a moment where the entire world made sense and I realized that happiness was available even for me.”

Crowley shifts on the bench. This is turning him on so surely it must be working on the priest. They really need comfortable seating if they expect people to stay in here for any length of time. Or perhaps the church believes that comfort will encourage people to linger. With the quietest snap of his fingers that he can manage, Crowley miracles a cushion on the bench. So much better. Now he can keep going as long as it takes.

“The next morning, I was filled with panic and fled without a word. I have no idea how to determine if he’s angry or accepting. He may have been too drunk to know what he was doing. I was drunk enough not to have much control, not when he smelled so good and started kissing me. I pray he didn’t fall from grace.”

“You need to ask for forgiveness and vow not to see this man again,” Brother Francis says. 

“I know we are meant to be together just as truly as I know we cannot.” What is it about the confessional that inspires so much honesty? Stupid catholic magic. It has nothing to do with the fact that the only person Crowley ever has or will ever be able to talk to about his feelings for Aziraphale is the priest he’s tempting on the other side of the screen.

“What will be your penitence?”

An eternity of tempting people to give into their desires while never getting the only thing I truly want. “I don’t know. I want him. I still imagine our brief time together and can’t decide if I should run into his arms if he is willing or flee in the opposite direction as fast as I can. I dream about him every night and all that we could have.”

“God wants you to be strong.”

“Then why did God make me this way? Desiring something forbidden and putting my soul at risk for damnation if I am too weak to resist. Like Eve with the apple; now that I have tasted the forbidden fruit, there is no going back.”

Crowley should have quit while he was ahead. But no, him and his stupid mouth always gets him in trouble. “Have you ever been in love? Do you have any idea how much it hurts to know that the love you feel might not be returned?”

And wow, where did that come from? Sure he lusts after Aziraphale, but lust is one thing, love is another. Crowley lets out a gasp. “I love him. I didn’t realize it until just this instant, but I love him.”

Sitting in stunned silence doesn’t make the revelation go away. Fuck, now what does he do?

Brother Francis sighs. “I know how romantic love feels. I have…been in love with someone my family found unsuitable. The realization that it could never be was devastating. Time heals all wounds and I take my solace in God’s grace and comfort.”

“You chose to deny yourself the opportunity for happiness?”

“You believe yourself somewhat assured of the gentleman's affections, but in my case, sadly, there is no indication my feelings are reciprocated.”

Crowley sees no benefit in calling the priest out on it, but he wonders if Brother Francis realizes that he sidestepped the gender of the person in question. If only there were a way to find out who this mystery man is. Crowley could whisper in his ear and send him to confession. That would be delicious irony if he could get the object of the priest’s desire to admit to lust without realizing whom he confesses to. 

“You can be saved. I believe you have a beautiful soul worthy of Heaven. That is why God is testing you.”

How would his tune change if Brother Francis knew he was speaking with a demon? “Did you tell the person how you felt?” It’s a risk to ask. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“I…no.”

“Why not?”

“This is my burden and I must bare it.”

“Is that how God tests a priest?” 

“A man doesn’t stop being a man when he takes his vows.”

Crowley smiles in the darkness. “No, he doesn’t”

\- FOUR - 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession and I don’t know when I will be back.” 

“What happened?” Brother Francis asks, sounding frantic.

Crowley’s mouth pulls up into a smirk. The priest must be desperate for some quality wank material if he’s skipping the formalities and cutting to the chase. That or the deliberately calm facade the priest has maintained is splintering. It’s Crowley’s turn to spread about some ferment and miracles in a nearby town, so he may be gone for a week or more. He wouldn’t want to priest to worry. 

“I mean, what sins have you come to confess?” Brother Francis asks

Sloth. So much sloth. Crowley doesn’t feel arsed to do anything besides laze around and wank while fantasizing about Aziraphale. While he can technically consider it research for stories to tell Brother Francis, it’s more about how he’s pining for the angel. 

No. He’s not pining. He’s not. He’s building up a solid base of stories to tell.

He’s pining.

“I sent my friend a note saying that we couldn’t spend time together for a while. I had become extremely busy and had so many commitments that socializing for fun could not be a priority. He arrived at my place less than an hour later.”

“Did God grant you the strength you prayed for?”

“I was weak and could deny him nothing. One kiss and I was lost.”

“Are you sorry?” the priest asks. The silence stretches on long enough that Brother Francis asks again. “Anthony?”

“I am sorry now, but while he was touching mean, I wasn’t. And I encouraged him. I know it is wrong, but I had hoped that touching myself for the last few days would lessen the desire for my Angel. It only makes it worse.” That part is true enough. The more he masturbates while thinking of Aziraphale, the more desperately he wants the angel. 

“Do you do the two of you engage in fornication?”

“We did not commit sodomy, but I allowed him to put his mouth on me. And he sucked until I spilled in his throat. I don’t think he had done that before, placed his mouth on a man. Did you know that was a thing? I had never heard of it and it took me by surprise.”

It’s difficult to hold back a snort. Adam and Eve had engaged in such behavior before they ate the apple. And then there are the Roman orgies. It’s an act as old as time itself, even if the Catholic Church acts like it was discovered the day before yesterday. 

“Felt like I’d died and gone to Heaven,” Crowley says. 

A tisking noise proceeds, “Nothing is as wonderful as Heaven.”

“I know you are a priest and bound by the rules of the Church, but I did not know true joy until that moment.” Crowley pauses. “There must be something you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in.”

“I rather like food, especially pastries.”

“Is there no food you could do without ever tasting again?”

“No.”

“Not even French crepes?” Crowley asks, thinking of the time he and Aziraphale had been in Paris and the angel had dragged him to every pastry shop he could find, determined to discover which had the best ones. 

“Crapes *are* quite delightful.”

With a bitter laugh, Crowley says, “There’s nothing like that in Heaven. It’s bright light and celestial harmonies for eternity. Or so I imagine,” he adds quickly. “If you were told it was a sin to eat crapes and that you can never have another one, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.”

That sounds vaguely familiar, but Crowley can’t quite place it. 

“What if life were fair? What if you could eat as many crepes as you wanted whenever you wanted?”

“Then I’d be rather bigger round the middle than I am now. If I had to choose between God’s love and crapes, I’d choose God’s love. No question about it.”

“But how do you know God is right? The King seeks divorce and he’ll get it even if he has to leave the Church to do so. Why does he get to have the one he desires, despite his previous vows, and I cannot?”

“You flirt with treason to discuss the King’s marriage.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. He’s the one who put the idea in King Henry’s head. If anyone can discuss it, it should be him. 

“I apologize for my words. But how do we know what God truly wants?”

“Consider the source,” Brother Francis says. “Did this rule come from God or someone speaking on God’s behalf? If the later, can I be assured that they are accurately presenting the message? Or is it their understanding of the message?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a priest.”

“We shouldn’t question God, but maybe we should question the messages that don’t arrive directly from the Almighty.”

“Don’t try that if you get to Heaven. It’s a one-way ticket downstairs. She gets righteously angry when her angels question her and boots them into a pool of boiling sulfur for the perceived insult.” Crowley closes his eyes. Fuck. He did not mean to say that. 

“Who are you?” Brother Francis asks. 

“A man in crisis,” Crowley says, but he can hear the door to the priest’s side open and shut. A few seconds later, the door on his side is yanked open, the candle blowing out with the rush of air. He didn’t even take the time to put his sunglasses back on.

“Crowley! I should have known it was you trying to thwart me. What are you doing here?” Aziraphale demands. 

The priest robes are unflattering and look completely ridiculous on him. And it does nothing to squash Crowley’s desire.

Blinking at the sudden brightness doesn’t magically make Aziraphale disappear. “Of all the luck. You! Since when are you a priest? And why didn’t you tell me? What a cock-up.” 

“This is a Church for goodness’ sake. How can you be inside here?”

“It’s a long story, but this Church isn’t technically on consecrated ground. I’m in town for a temptation. I assume you’re here for a blessing.”

“Of course I am. I’m helping the parishioners stay on a virtuous path through my counseling during confessions. The particular one I’m assigned to help is Anthony.”

Oops. “Um, yeah, about that. The first time I came here, confession was about to end so I pushed past the waiting man. He said, ‘you can’t do this to me! I’m Anthony Crawford.’ I flashed my demon eyes at him and he practically pissed himself while fleeing. Pretty sure he’s scared straight after that. I liked the name.”

“And who are you trying to tempt?”

“Father Francis. He’s inclined towards homosexuality and I was instructed to encourage him to give in.”

“Temptation accomplished,” Aziraphale says, and he squeezes into the confessional, closing the door behind him. “Lose the trousers.”

Crowley’s jaw falls open. A small part of him wants to ask Aziraphale if he’s certain. He was sincere in his concerns that the angel might fall as a result of sex with a demon. The larger part tells him to shut up and get on with it. Crowley stands, bumping into Aziraphale, unfastens his trousers, and pushes them down to his knees before sitting down. 

Aziraphale hikes up his robes and straddles Crowley’s lap, shifting around. With a snap, viscous fluid coats his palm. He strokes along Crowley’s shaft. 

“I was right. This is so much better than when I touch myself,” Crowley moans.

The angel’s voice is low and hot when he whispers in Crowley’s ear, “Yes, it is.” He grabs Crowley’s cock and positions it at the puckered muscle of his hole. With a groan, he slides down until Crowley is completely inside him. Aziraphale’s breath comes in sharp little pants. 

It’s awkward as Hell, the angel riding Crowley when there isn’t really enough room. And it’s completely bloody brilliant. He had no idea that sex could feel like this, like everything in the universe aligned just to create this moment. Grabbing Aziraphale’s glorious ass, Crowley grinds into him.

“Touch me,” Aziraphale whispers. “Want to spill with you inside me.” 

Crowley slides a hand between them and grips Aziraphale’s dick, moving his hand up and down and enjoying the way he whimpers every time his fist reaches the tip. 

The press of Aziraphale’s lips against his own intensifies everything; he tastes like stars. And when his muscles clench as he comes, Crowley follows immediately after. For the first time in his very long existence, Crowley understands the human’s obsession with sex. The aftershocks from the spectacular orgasm haven’t faded yet and he wants more. Except....

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “I can’t look. Did you fall? What color are your wings?”

“I don’t care about my wings.”

“I do.”

Aziraphale stiffens, and this is the moment when he’s going to say it was a mistake and it’s over before it began. The Church may not be on consecrated ground, but there must be a font of holy water somewhere nearby that Crowley can drown himself in. It will be less painful than dealing with an eternity of knowing what could have been and not getting a chance to even try. 

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” Aziraphale says. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Crowley says, pretending that he’s mimicking Aziraphale’s voice, but doing it badly on purpose. “Because I’m a wanker who’s in love and just had sex with someone else.”

“I’m in love with you, you silly demon.”

Oh! That changes things.

“And don’t act so self-righteous,” Aziraphale says. “Who did you get drunk with at the wedding?”

Crowley is thankful the confessional is dark because his face must be bright red. “About that.”

“What angel have you been fraternizing with? How did I not know about this? Lord. I thought we were friends!”

“None of that actually happened.” Something about the “priest” looming over him in the confessional inspires the truth, even if the priest is still sitting on Crowley’s dick. “I don’t have any particularly interesting personal experience to draw from. So my confessions were all things I fantasized about doing with you or you doing to me. There is no angel for me except you. The sudden rain, that was back in the garden. The dancing is what I wish could have happened in King Arthur’s court. The wedding….”

“The one in Canna? Was it all part of the temptation or do you love me?”

Is there any benefit in lying at this point? “I’ve been in love with you since the beginning, but I didn’t realize until a couple of weeks ago when I told Brother Francis - you - that I was in love.”

“You’re in love with me? Really, truly in love with me?”

“How can I not? You’re love and goodness and everything I’ve ever wanted and never admitted to wanting.”

Aziraphale’s smile lights up the darkness. “I have a confession of my own to make. This assignment has been making me miserable. I’m not a very good angel and I’m an even worse priest. I overeat, I drink too much, and I’ve been using most of my time here to work my way through the parish library. I wanted to save Anthony’s soul and detested saying that he shouldn’t pursue the love of his life. Because he should be able to have both God’s love and romantic love with the human he chooses, regardless of the gender of the person.”

“You were doing what you have to. I understand that more than anyone.” Crowley rubs his thumbs across Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

“Can we go to your place?” Aziraphale asks. “I have little privacy here and would prefer to further explore this in a large, soft bed rather than a tiny, uncomfortable cot.”

The bed at Crowley’s place has just miraculously doubled in size. “Anything you want, Angel. Anything at all.”

\- FIVE - 

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,” Crowley says, pushing his glasses on top of his head.

And what a glorious week it has been. He and Aziraphale have been making up for millennia of missed opportunities. They’ve been in bed for days, and neither left the flat until this morning when Aziraphale insisted he must hear his weekly scheduled confession and wrap up a few things before he can officially resign. This will be a naughty surprise for Aziraphale, who has every reason to assume that Crowley is still sound asleep in bed.

Without waiting for the formality of being asked, Crowley says, “It’s been a busy week. I fornicated with a priest right here in the confessional, participated in daily acts of sodomy, and can’t wait to eat that ass again like the delicacy that it is.”

“YOU WHAT?!” shrieks a voice that is definitely not Aziraphale’s.

Well...shit. Apparently, one should verify that the love of one’s existence is listening to the sexually graphic confession designed to entice, and not an actual priest. 

Crowley cracks his neck from side to side, slides his shades over his eyes, and smirks. If he’s going to do the walk of shame out of the Church, at least he can do it with style. 

\- THE END -

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and kudos are love.


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